And yet it's so far from what he thinks it is.



"If I had the chance to see my father, again." Jo frowned at the window. She'd only shared this with her Sweet Killer Girl. Only, and ever. "Christ. I'd do more than walk through his house, or even give a damn about what decided to cling to him--"

Her father. If she could ever have him--him and his leather jacket--and his razor burn, and they way he smelled like blown bullets and salt and dirt, never having clean fingers and always that laugh that lingered in her dreams.